


The Ghost of Christmas Might Have Been

by nicKnack22



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Brotherhood, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Dad!Dean, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Holidays, Kid Fic, M/M, Siblings, dad!Cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicKnack22/pseuds/nicKnack22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or five ways that Dean Winchester could have celebrated Christmas and one way he still might.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Safe and Warm

This is extremely important. Will you please tell Santa that instead of presents this year, I just want my family back.  
-Kevin McAlister, Home Alone.

*

At nine, Dean is old enough to know the truth. The big secret that only the grown-ups know. 

Sammy is only five, he’s too little to know yet. This isn’t the first time that Dean knows something that Sammy doesn’t. Like when they were really little, and Dean knew that Batman couldn’t fly but Sam sure didn’t, and he broke his arm jumping off the picnic table because the Batsuit he was wearing didn’t give him the ability to stay air bound. Once Dean started school, he learned all sorts of things that Sam didn’t, but he was always happy to teach him. Sammy is really smart, he learns things quick, and Dean feels all kinds of important when he gets to show his little brother something new, like how to write in cursive and how to do times tables and what climates are. Sam is probably the smartest kindergartner in his year, and it’s not all because of Dean, but Dean’s likes to think he helped. A little bit. It’s part of his job as big brother. 

Keeping the secret is part of his job too. 

He asked his mom about it one day after school: if Santa was real. She sat him down with a glass of milk, a slice of pie, and the same look on her face that she wore when they had to put a cast on his arm last summer, when Dean had asked her if it would hurt and his mom looked so sad when she told him it would. 

“No, honey,” she said, brushing a hand through his hair, “he’s not.”

Dean frowned and kicked at the kitchen island with a scuffed sneaker. He’d really hoped that Gordon Walker was just being a jerk and messing with him, even if the evidence increasingly made it look like his classmate was telling the truth. 

“Oh.”

His mom smiled at him, and her eyes were warm like when Dean scrapes his knees and she applies antiseptic. 

“It’s good to believe in something, Dean,” she said, “and I don’t want you to think that it’s not.”

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and pulled him to her side, half a hug, warm and safe.

“Santa might not be real, he might not be a person, but the things he stands for--kindness and giving and love--those things are all very real, and they’re a bit more special when you realize that it’s not just a magical guy running around but millions of people all over the world trying their hardest to make other people feel happy and loved.”

“Huh,” Dean said, frowning at his pie. He hadn’t thought of it like that. 

His mom smiled.

“Santa isn’t real, but that doesn’t mean that Christmas can’t be magical,” she said, “now you get to help me and your dad make it special for Sammy and the other kids who still believe.”

“Yeah?” Dean brightened considerably.

“Of course,” his mom ruffled his hair, “now eat your pie.”

So Dean keeps the secret. He doesn’t tell Sammy; he doesn’t tell anyone at school; in fact, he almost punches Gordon Walker in the face when he tries to ruin Christmas for a bunch of first graders. 

Dean helps Sammy write a letter to Santa. 

Sam writes the heading by himself in blue crayon, and then dictates the rest so that Dean can carefully print each word. 

“Gotta make sure the big guy can read this, right?” 

“Right!”

Sam signs it himself, in the same blue crayon, the letters big and a little uneven: SAMUEL WINCHESTER. Dean ruffles his hair, addresses the envelop to Santa Claus, 25 Christmas Lane, North Pole, and Sam runs off to give it to Dad so that he can put it in the mail on his way to work tomorrow. Dad smiles bright when he scoops Sam up and he winks at Dean over his brother’s head. 

“Thanks for helpin’ Sam, Dean-o.”

Dean’s chest puffs up with pride as he winks back.

They go to get a Christmas tree together two weeks before Christmas. Dad comes home early from the garage to take them all. Mom makes sure they’re bundled up nice and warm and they drive to the Christmas tree farm a few miles outside of town. Dean and Sam spend a couple minutes just running between the trees, playing tag and hide-and-go-seek, but then it’s actual decision making time. Mom and Dad debate the merits of this type of tree over that type of tree, Sam immediately decides that they need the biggest one, and it’s Dean who ends up picking the tree they get. It’s not too big or too small, it’s a Goldilocks tree: just right. It smells the best and the needles aren’t sharp and pointy, but soft and they leave his fingers slightly sticky and smelling like pine. 

“Good job, Dean,” Dad says. 

“What do you think, Sam?” asks Mom.

“I like it,” Sammy agrees. 

They buy the tree and tie it up on top of the car. They stop at a diner on the way home. Mom and Dean get pie, Dad and Sammy get french fries, and they all get hot chocolate. They toast to a very Merry Christmas and a successful tree hunt with a special nod to Dean for his tree hunting skills. 

Mom takes them to see Santa at the mall. It’s crowded, there are tons of people shopping and running around: the line to visit Santa is huge. Dean feels like it might take forever. Mom promises them that, if they’re very good, they can get cinnamon buns in the food court before going home, and that makes the prospect of waiting in this forever line with crying babies and old ladies and other kids simultaneously better and worse. 

Sam tugs on Dean’s sleeve when they’re finally close enough that they can see Santa’s helpers guiding kids up to see the big guy.

“Dean?” he asks, eyes wide and nervous, “Is this the real Santa?”

Dean answers without a second’s hesitation, “Nah, the real Santa is up at the North Pole, and dude’s busy.”

Sam looks disappointed.

“This Santa works for the real Santa,” he explains, conspiratorially, “he like reports in about what we tell him and stuff, that way Santa can get the work done but still knows what’s going on down here.”

“Ooohhh,” Sam replies, “that makes sense.”

“‘Course it does,” Dean says with all of his big brother swagger. 

Sam shakes his head like Dean is being silly, and Dean gives him a noogie just cause. 

Christmas is kind of awesome. They make like a million different types of Christmas cookies the week before. Mom lets them lick the bowl even though you aren’t supposed to and she and Dean and Sam dance around the kitchen listening to an old Gene Autry album that his mom’s had since she was a kid. They are all laughing and covered in sprinkles when Dad comes home. He takes one look at the mess before cutting in on Sam and twirling mom around and dipping her for a kiss. 

“Eeewwww,” Dean and Sam say with wrinkled noses. 

Dad and Mom laugh and roll their eyes, and Dean gives Dad a sugar cookie shaped like a Christmas tree covered in green sprinkles. 

On Christmas Eve, they set out cookies and milk for Santa, and Sammy insists that they leave him a note telling him Merry Christmas and “have a safe flight” and “thank you for the presents” and Dean writes it out for him. They get ready for bed like normal except more excited. Dean thought, well, he’d worried, that because he knows Santa’s not real, that he wouldn’t be excited any more, but it turns out that’s not true. Sammy’s excitement is contagious, and Dean is jumpy as a result. They brush their teeth and haggle over the sink until Mom tells them to hurry it up. 

Dad and Mom both tuck them in. Dad gives Dean a big hug and ruffles his hair. Mom presses a kiss against his forehead and wishes him a good night. 

When Dean wakes up, it’s still dark outside, Sammy is poking his shoulder.

“Dean. Dean,” he whispers, “Deeeannn, wake up.”

“‘M up,” Dean grumbles, “Wassa matter?”

Sam glares at him like he’s the stupidest big brother in the history of ever.

“It’s Christmas.”

That wakes him up, “Oh.”

He moves over so that Sam can climb into bed next to him, footie pajamas and all. 

“D’you think Santa came yet?” Sam whispers, as he burrows under the blankets. 

“I dunno,” Dean whispers back, “‘s still early.”

“Should we check?”

Dean considers this. He doesn’t want to check only to have Sammy find out the ‘truth.’ What if mom and dad are still down stairs? What if they catch them in the act? He can’t ruin Christmas for Sammy. Never mind that he never caught his parents before, it’s up to Dean now.

“Think we should wait till it’s light out, just in case,” he finally says, “don’t want to scare him. He only comes if you’re sleeping.”

Sammy’s eyes are wide even in the darkened room, “You’re right.”

“Course I am.”

“Shut up.”

“You can stay in here if you want...till morning,” Dean offers, “just don’t steal all the covers, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sam wakes Dean three hours later with an elbow (accidentally) jabbed into his face. By then it’s actually morning and they all but launch out of bed, run down the hallway, and leap on top of their snoring parents.

“It’s Christmas!” they cry, “Merry Christmas, wake up!”

Mom groans and Dad laughs. 

“John,” mom says, “coffee, please.”

Dad kisses Mom before getting up out of bed. Sammy gets up with him, attached with his freaky octopus limbs to Dad’s neck. 

“All right, kiddo, you wanna see if Santa came?”

“Yeah!” 

“Dean?”

“Nah, I’ll wait.”

“Okay.”

Dad and Sam gallop down the hall and down the stairs. Dean curls up in the circle of his mom’s arms and she hums softly and hugs him tight. 

“Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

Dean smiles, “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

“You’ve been so, so great this year, and I just want you to know that your dad and I really appreciate all your help.”

“Thanks, mom,” Dean hides his face against her shoulder. 

“That’s my boy,” she says, sleepily, “Now let’s go see what Santa brought for you.”

Dean has to tug her out of bed. 

Mom drinks her coffee while Sam and Dean tear into their gifts, and Dad takes pictures. Dean places a sticky bow on top of Dad’s head and Dad does the same to Dean laughing. 

Dean gets a freaking cool skateboard and Sam gets the Ghost Buster toys that he wanted so much. They both get some new clothes and it’s a pretty awesome haul.

Mom makes French toast for breakfast, and they go out to play in the snow in the afternoon. Dean can’t use his skateboard yet, but he sure can have a snowball fight with Dad and Mom and Sam. Dean gets to help his mom make dinner: ham and mashed potatoes and corn and green beans. Dean is responsible for making the biscuits all on his own and everyone compliments them when they settle down to eat. Dean beams with pride. 

Dean and Sam fall asleep in the living room shortly after desert. Sam curled up on the couch next to Dad, and Dean partially underneath the Christmas tree where the lights flicker on his face and it smells the most like Christmas. Dad carries him up to bed, which should be embarrassing (he’s going to be ten in a month!) but isn’t. Mom comes to tuck him in. 

“Thanks for Christmas, Mom,” he mumbles as she pulls the blankets up to his chin.

“Aww, baby, thank you for Christmas,” he can hear the smile in her voice and his mouth twitches in a sleepy smile too, “Good night, sweetie, angels are watching over you.”

“Night, Mom,” Dean whispers back, “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

The little angel statue that he’s had since he was a baby sits perched just next to his bed, snow falls outside the window, Sammy and his Mom and Dad are sleeping just down the hallway and Dean falls asleep warm and safe, happy and loved.


	2. Glad Tidings of Comfort and Joy

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and Scrooge was conscious of a thousand odors, each one connected with a thousand thoughts and hopes and joys and cares long, long forgotten.

-Gonzo, A Muppet’s Christmas Carol

“Dean!” Sam calls up the stairs, “Come on, we’re gonna be late!”

Dean rolls his eyes after glancing at his watch. They still have more than three hours until go time. Sam is an overeager pain in the ass sometimes. Dean just shakes his head and works on using the bathroom mirror to tie his tie. Man, he hates ties.

“Dean!”

“I’m coming, Sammy,” he yells back. God. Kid’s got ants in his pants. He figures the tie is good enough, grabs his jacket from where it’s hooked over his bedroom door, and trundles down the stairs.

Sam is waiting at the bottom with a glare that only a twelve year old can muster. It’s equal parts wrath and impatience and clashes pretty hard with his floppy hair, which Dean ruffles on principle. Sam looks like he has never been so offended in his entire life. He fixes his hair, glares at his brother, shouts, “I’ll meet you in the car,” and stomps out the door, letting in a blast of icy air while Dean laughs.

“Dean, don’t antagonize your brother,” his mom says coming up behind him, buttoning her coat and donning a festive scarf, “he’s nervous.”

Dean pulls an exaggerated face, “I have listened to that kid sing every song from that musical every day for the last two months, I think he’s ready.”

Mom tries to hide a smile, and clears her throat, “Be nice to Sam, Dean.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Mhm,” she reaches over and begins adjusting his tie, looping the green silk and pulling tight, “just remember that your brother went uncomplaining to see you in The Nutcracker last week, and he did not tease you even once. I think he gave you a standing ovation, in fact.”

His mom arches a knowing eyebrow, and Dean shuffles his feet, “Yeah, okay.”

She straightens the lapels of his jacket, kisses his cheek, “That’s my boy.”

The Theodore Roosevelt Middle School’s holiday musical is The Sound of Music. Sam got cast as Kurt—the younger brother that even freaking Maria forgets—and Sam has been over the freaking moon about it ever since. Between October and December, Sam took his play responsibilities as seriously as he took his Mathlete competitions and his science homework and his soccer games. He went overboard: researched and memorized random factoids about the play and the real VonTrapp family and the words to every song and each character’s lines. He has been serenading Dean with “Sixteen Going on Seventeen” for two months. Dean’s come to realize that whenever Sam hums the opening bars, he’s heavily implying that Dean is an immature idiot, and Dean has slowly developed a strange hostility to nuns, Austria, and Sam as a result.

Mom’s right though, Sammy was nothing but awesome at Dean’s show, and the kid is clearly nervous, he looks a little green around the gills. So, after mom gives him a kiss and wishes him luck, Dean is sure to pull him aside and loop a strong supporting arm around his scrawny shoulders.

“You’re gonna be great, Sammy,” he says.

“You think so?”

“Know so,” he ruffles Sam’s hair, and Sam rolls his eyes, “Now go kick some Nazi ass.”

“You’re so weird.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Boys!”

Dean joins their mom in the audience and they applaud in all the right places. Sammy does a great job, and Dean’s the one who whoops and claps the loudest when the play ends. Sam tries to be embarrassed, but can’t quite manage it as he beams from the stage.

 

The run up to Christmas is always busy. Mom takes extra shifts at the hospital so that she can have Christmas Eve and Day off to spend with the family. There are finals for Dean to worry about, and end of term club meetings (Dean has to finish his story for the Literary Journal, he tutors for the last time until January, but Science Club at least ends the semester with cake), it actually works out well that his recital was two weeks ago, means he’s got less shit to stress about.

On the twenty-third, he and Sam part ways with their friends on the way home from school. They order pizza (half veggie and half meat-lovers), and spend the day cleaning the house, and blowing up air mattresses, setting up the spare room, and putting the final trimmings on the tree. They do that last every year, so that when mom comes home in the wee hours of the morning the tree glows bright and welcoming at her from the window. Dean and Sam try to wait up for her, but they usually end up falling asleep on the sofa, reruns of Cheers playing on the TV. Mom presses a soft kiss to Dean’s forehead to wake him.

“The tree’s beautiful, sweetie.” Dean smiles, still half-asleep.

He helps mom carry Sam up to bed, and then crashes hard in his own, lulled by the sounds of mom closing up the house, everyone safe and accounted for.

On Christmas Eve, the house smells freaking awesome: like turkey and butter and pie. It’s straight up heavenly. Dean and mom work together in the kitchen. She plays old records and they dance around and laugh. Sam is on cookie patrol, which essentially means that it’s his sacred duty to make sure that Dean doesn’t scarf them all down straight out of the oven. Sam has an unfortunate and terrifying tendency to burn everything he touches, so Mom tends to give him tasks that don’t involve actually cooking anything, like whacking Dean with a wooden spoon if he so much as looks at the pie wrong.

By the time Uncle Bobby shows up, Christmas dinner is almost ready, and the boys get big bear hugs. Sam is still small enough that Bobby can scoop him up; Dean just gets wrapped up in burly arms. Bobby smells like old books, leather, and engine grease. His whiskers scratch at Dean’s cheek. They pull apart with big smiles.

“You boys are gettin’ too damn tall,” he laughs, ruffling Sam’s hair and cuffing Dean’s shoulder, “What you been feedin’ them, Mary?”

Mom comes in, drying her hands on dishtowel, “Nothing out of the ordinary…I did send them to help out at that nuclear plant a few weeks though.”

They both laugh. Mom wraps her arms around Bobby, who picks her up and spins her around before setting her down again.

“Good to see you, old man.”

“Ain’t that old,” Bobby rejoins gruff as ever, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his lips.

“Uhuh, let’s see what you say after these two run you ragged the next few days.”

Sam finds this both offensive and complimentary; Dean takes it as a challenge.

Bobby puts the star on top of the tree that night. They eat (a specifically rationed and Sam enforced amount of) Christmas cookies while lounging in the living room. Bobby asks Sam about his play and Dean about his recital. He asks Mary about work. He tells the boys ‘war stories’ about a ghost up in Minnesota that could only be killed on the darkest night of the year, about a vampire nest outside of Salt Lake City, about an ancient parchment he found through a friend of a friend of a friend that contained a spell to summon an angel.

Dean scoffs at that last, “No such thing.”

Bobby leans back in his chair and raises a brow, “Never say never, boy, all sorts of things out there.”

Don’t they all know it. Dean glances over at his mom who has Sammy pulled close to her side, she’s still smiling, but there’s a faraway look in her eyes. Dean knows she’s thinking about Dad, about her parents. He shares a look with Bobby, who senses the change in mood, and proceeds to change the subject, asking Sam to go fetch the video recording of his play so he can see it.

Dean knows what’s out there in the dark. He knows about the things that most people only dream about. He comes from a long line of hunters, he and Sam both, and he learned, right alongside his mom, that he couldn’t run from that legacy. Pretending there isn’t a monster isn’t under your bed, doesn’t make the monster go away, doesn’t make it less real, it just makes it easier for the thing to grab your ankle and pull you under.

Mom sat him down after Dad died, after the fire but before she left on the hunt, she sat him down and told him the truth. He doesn’t necessarily remember much of that conversation. He remembers how everything smelled like smoke; he remembers Missouri standing in the doorway, holding Sammy in her arms, he remembers his mom, with tears in her eyes. He remembers her telling him then, that you can’t walk away, you can’t walk away and pretend it’s not real; the darkness is always going to be out there, the best you can do is be ready for it when it comes. Retrospectively, Dean thinks that she had mostly been talking to herself. He was still in shock; too far gone to protest her leaving, too little to really understand what was happening.

Missouri took good care of them while Mom was gone on the hunt. She hugged them and cooked for them, and didn’t complain once when Dean insisted that he and Sam share her bed, when Dean didn’t utter a single peep for three months. Mom killed the demon; mom came home, and mom was the same and different. They lived with Missouri for a few months after that. Missouri insisted, and mom agreed. Life was stable, normal, but it was also fundamentally changed. Dean learned how to salt windows and doors, learned Greek and Enochian and Latin alongside English. He wore a silver bracelet on his pudgy wrist the first day of kindergarten, and an iron necklace hung from his neck even as he held his very own Batman lunch box; he memorized his first exorcism before he learned the pledge of allegiance. Dean didn’t speak much for a long time, but one of the first thing he asked for was to go to dance classes, his mom and Missouri were so happy that he had broken his silence, he thinks he probably could have asked for scuba diving lessons and they would have complied. Dance was good for Dean. It gave him something to focus his attention on; something other than scary stories, and bad dreams. He felt strong and coordinated and in control in a way he never had before. He had an escape and an outlet, and Missouri and Mom took him to his classes every day after school without fail.

Mom didn’t ever go looking for a fight, but she always kept her ears open. If something was in the neighborhood, you didn’t call Ghost Busters, you called Mary Winchester, and she took care of it. She got certified as a nurse, she worked hard at her job, she helped people that way, cared for them as best she could, defended them, offered comfort and support, and sassed the hell out of know it all doctors. She also opened up her old contacts after Dad died, she tapped into the network, and slowly, over the course of years, she became the go to for supernatural information. That’s how Bobby became part of their family. How they collected Bill and Ellen, Pastor Jim, Rufus, Frank, Caleb.

The boys spent a few weeks of every summer at Uncle Bobby’s. He taught Dean his way around an engine and how to shoot a cross bow, taught him how to build a campfire, and hot-wire a car, how to pick out constellations in the night sky and read the Iliad. When they were little, they went to Missouri’s after school. She taught them how to cook and read Tarot; how to lay down Hoodoo wards, and honor broken spirits. She taught them, perhaps most importantly, how to feel, how to talk, how to be. Mom read them bedtime stories; she came to every recital, every game, all the spelling bees and science fairs. She taught them how to shoot straight and how to speak their minds; she taught them that just cause there’s darkness out in the world, doesn’t mean there has to be darkness in their hearts.

Mom doesn’t talk about Dad a lot. Dean knows she blames herself for what happened. He knows that holidays are hard for her. Dad doesn’t have a grave that they can visit; Mom salted and burned his body, there’s nowhere for her to lay flowers on Christmas Day. Sam doesn’t remember Dad at all, and Dean’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. Dean misses his dad, but it’s a dull sort of ache, it’s not like how Mom misses him. Dean remembers his dad giving him big hugs, he remembers being tossed in the air and laughing, he remembers sitting on his dad’s lap behind the wheel of the Impala. Every November, Dean pulls his dad’s old leather jacket his mom had given him from where it lies safe and hidden in the back of his closet and he sits for a moment with it, smells it for that lingering scent of dad, and then puts it away. Dean doesn’t ever wear it, it doesn’t fit right, it’s not his style, but it’s precious, so he makes sure it’s well cared for.

They have a good family. Dean doesn’t have a dad, but he has an awesome, badass mom, and a goofy kid brother and a collection of adoptive aunts and uncles that are probably the coolest bunch of weirdos you could ever hope to meet. They might not be Christmas Card perfect, but they do all right, and they love him. They love him a whole damn lot, and Dean? He loves them too, with his whole damn heart. Which is why Christmas is kind of great. Everyone comes down to their house. It’s the only time out of the year that they all get together. When Dean was around nine, this made him really nervous: shouldn’t someone stay away for safekeeping? What if all the demons and monsters band together to attack the best hunters while they’re gathered in one place with their guard down? Mom had had to talk him through that particular terror. Then she had taken him down to the ‘library’ to dig out the most potent protective sigils and spells they could find to add on top of the normal wards. Dean felt better after that.

“Shouldn’t you boys go to bed?” Bobby shakes Dean from his reverie, “Santa won’t come if you’re all still awake.”

Sam rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, “Uncle Bobby, Santa isn’t real.”

“You really want to take that chance, boy?” Sam contemplates this with a very deep frown.

Mom smiles softly over her cup of hot chocolate, “Go on, Sam, bed time.”

Sam goes with only the slightest bit of resistance: a shake of his head, a kiss on Mom’s cheek, a hug for Uncle Bobby. Dean is more hesitant. Mom is sad; he knows that she misses Dad; knows that holidays are hard for her; he wants to hug her tight, make sure she knows she’s not alone. He looks between Mom and Uncle Bobby, worry clearly etched in his face.

“Go on, Dean,” Bobby says with a knowing look, “we’ll be fine.”

Dean nods tightly, clearly implying that he trusts Bobby and that Bobby better not prove him wrong. He gives his mom a huge hug, holding on as tight as he can, her hair smells like cinnamon and honeysuckle. “Love you, Mom.” His mom rubs a soothing circle against his back, “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Dean glances back as he climbs the stairs. Mom and Bobby sit together on the couch; she lays a head on his shoulder and he hugs her close.

Christmas morning dawns bright and sunny, it’s not the snow that Sam had hoped for, but the presents are good, the pancakes are delicious, and people start arriving around noon.

Rufus shows up first. “Jesus, you boys get any taller, we gonna have to raise the ceiling.”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Dean laughs.

“Now where is your beautiful mama?”

“Over here, Rufus!”

Hugs are exchanged, even Rufus and Bobby (after Bobby hands over a bottle of fine malt whiskey). Sam is basically jumping out his skin, brimming with questions for Rufus, who answers every single one. Bobby chips in his two cents every so often and the two men argue over half-forgotten (or too well remembered) hunts of years gone by.

Aunt Ellen and Uncle Bill show up just past two. Aunt Ellen has a bear hug for Dean, and two pies (pecan and apple) for everyone; Uncle Bill carries gifts for everyone and lays them out under the tree. Jo almost immediately drags Dean off to show him the new knife tricks she’s picked up this year. They trade knife tricks like normal kids trade Pokemon; it’s a holiday tradition to see which of them can most creatively spear the holly wreath above the mantle before dessert.

The Campbell cousins aren’t coming this year (which Dean is deeply thankful for). Gwen is okay, but Christian is a dick. The last time Dean saw Christian, he called Dean a fag, and Dean used his ‘fucking pansy ass ballerina” flexibility to kick Christian in the face. Christian lost three teeth, Dean lost any scarce respect he’d had for his cousin, and Mary had rescinded their invitation until they learned some manners. Whatever. It’s like Bobby always says, “family don’t end with blood.” Dean likes their chosen family way better than the douche bags his extended biology landed him with.

Missouri spends Christmas morning with her daughter’s family, but she comes over afterwards with gifts and hugs for everyone. “I couldn’t go a whole Christmas without my boys, you’re family too.” Sam basically sticks himself to her side.

Frank Devereaux turns up just in time for dinner, shooting shifty eyes at everyone but Mary. Pastor Jim can’t come because he has to minister, but he calls between the turkey and the pie to wish everyone a Very Merry Christmas. Caleb is spending the holiday with his girlfriend’s family (a huge subject of gossip around the table), but he calls with season’s greetings, too.

They swap stories and gifts. Dean helps in the kitchen when he’s not hanging out with Jo (who would rather, in her words, “gouge out my eyes with a spoon, than help make dinner.” “Joanna Beth!” “You got in trouble, dude.” “Dean!”). Bobby and Dean play poker. Rufus and Sam play chess. Then they switch. Jo and Frank have a very intense conversation about computers, while Mary, Bill, and Ellen talk about the best way to triage a stab wound. They all eat too much at dinner, and sprawl out in the living room afterwards, going back for seconds and thirds (or fourths, in Dean’s case) of pie. Somewhere in the middle of those two things, Jo wins their competition, and gains bragging rights for the whole year (Sam and Mary high five her). They pass around coffee (Irish for Bobby and Rufus) and tea and eggnog; football plays in the background even though no one (except maybe Bill) is watching. By the time Dean and Sam trundle up to bed around midnight, Mary has fallen asleep on the couch, Bobby and Rufus are singing an off key Christmas song in the corner, Frank walked Missouri home an hour before, and Bill, Ellen, and Jo have long since gone to sleep.

The boys share Dean’s room in order to make space for everyone. The house is full to the breaking point, but it’s kind of nice. Dean feels warm and safe. They pull on their pajamas; Sam takes Dean’s bed, Dean curls up in his sleeping bag on the floor. It’s not the most comfortable, but still, it’s nice.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” he whispers once they’ve settled.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, Everyone. I hope that this chapter is a delightful balm this holiday season. Comments are always welcome. I truly hope that you are all taking care of yourselves and having some rest and happiness in the midst of all the crazy seasonal madness. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! Thanks for taking the time to stop by this fic. Every chapter will be from a different universe/reality with a different Christmas to match. I hope that you enjoyed this installment. There should be another one next weekend and every weekend thereafter until Christmas. I can, if you'd like, post what the parameters of the universe at the beginning or end of the chapter if you would like. Much love and thanks for reading!


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